The Second returns
by icarus20
Summary: A bit of practice to get me back in the game, really.


Okay, a few points 1: in this timeline, the second Primarch is found after Curze 2: This is very much practice. I personally don't like my portrayal of Guilliman here, and this serves to get me back in the writing game and practice for Heresy of Truth, my alternate HH. 3: I need criticism. Don't be a dick, bug don't hold back, I want to know where I'm going wrong so HoT goes right. Thank you.

Without further ado:

The long, gangly arms of the trees swayed in the wind, almost as if pushing the smell of the grasslands below the plateau toward the waiting figures. Even in the cool night air, one could tell they were abnormal. The violet moon showed figures clad in blue armour standing to attention, bolters raised across their power armour. The wind gusted again, bringing with it a tang of freshness he rarely experienced, yet knew was native to the uncolonised worlds of the eastern fringe. Free of the taint of industry and humanity, there was a strange beauty in these worlds. An isolated beauty that resided within the trees and shadowy grasses, the silence of night, the smell and taste of the fresh grasses.

Guilliman shook his head subtly, looking around the arranged ranks of Astarte and Primaris Marines. Now was not the time to indulge in the tranquillity of nature. Almost as though his thoughts had banished nature, the wind changed and brought with it the smell of burning fuel and the tense anticipation of this meeting. The rumbling of engines, the smell of the Imperator Titan's own engines combining with the city that stood upon the western skyline, the sounds if it muted by clinking as some of his gene sons checked their equipment. Above, Macragge's Honor stood, silent and stationary in the great dark expanse of space, a sentinel watching over his sons.

It was what dominated the other side of the sky that disturbed him.

A similarly huge Gloriana class battleship, attended to by battle barges, strike cruisers, escorts, ships of every form and size imaginable. An armada to rival the one he'd brought. He awaited the ambassadors of this fleet with grim trepidation, scenarios eating away at his brain like mites as he weighed possibilities, outcomes and events. None of his loyal brothers were awakened. The ships bore no taint or evidence of chaos or it's corruption. The adepts of the Mechanicus had reported that they hadn't recovered this technology. The Inquisition had denied they had access to a Gloriana, as had the Ecclesiarchy. Guilliman trusted all three agencies as much as he trusted his master crafted weaponry to fail. No chapter had owned up to the fleet, not even Dorn's Templar's.

Guilliman's questions and attempts to escape this maze of insanity were about to be answered. Lights in the sky flickered and glimmered, descending as they marked the descent of craft. From afar, the Primarch's eyes picked out the same black and grey sigil, that seemed to be of a Wolf's head, only made of curling lines and swirling patterns, almost as though it was made of bits of ribbon. His first assumption was that of his brother, Russ, but the colours didn't match and the thought was discarded into the reservoir of doubts, theories, assumptions and thoughts that this venture had disproved. The craft came into view, and a small grin cut across the rocky features that had so far adorned his expression. An old style Stormbird, flanked by three Thunderhawks on either side hove into view across the star dotted night sky. They were all painted a dark, rich blue that reminded him of slate, trimmed with the darkest grey he'd ever seen.

He knew those colours from somewhere. He knew their origin. He discarded the thought. Of all the possibilities, this one was the one that would not- could not happen. It was statistically, factually and literally impossible. No. This was not his answer. Searching with his eyes, he saw no other markings, save for an old earth style II stencilled into the side. Guilliman closed his eyes, heedless of his sons as he reopened them again, casting them up to the sky, everything within dyed a hint of lavender. The ships were still there. They were closer. Their engines within earshot.

The Primarch growled inwardly, willing the sight not to be real as they got closer. He ordered a his sons to take aim at the craft. All his fleet were to show their broadsides. Every trigger's view of the moon was to be obscured by the finger holding it to first pressure.

Two thunderhawks split off and landed a three miles away, guns pointing at his arrayed Ultramarimes. He unsheathed his Father's sword as the flames bathed his armour and the nearby grasses in their light. Squinting against their light, he remembered a simpler, easier time. A time which haunted him now.

The Thunderhawks still airborne landed, followed by the Stormbird. One of the colossal arms of the Titan moved to aim at the Stormbird sat before them, slowly heaving into position as the titan rumbled, watching it's prey. Steam hissed from the craft as the ramps slowly opened like the harbingers of a truth Guilliman wished buried. Yet here it was. Holding the sword, he signalled his guard to follow him, Sicarius granted orders to fire should the first sign of trouble occur.

Every step was uncomfortable. Every movement brought a fresh wave of trepidation. His hearts pounded like atomic explosions within his chest. His eyes relayed information numbly and unwillingly. His brain screamed that this was not possible. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be. This broke all laws, natural and created. This was impossible. His very being howled protests, the agony of denial eating him like a great monster devouring him.

"Brother."

The agony seared to a point and assaulted his eardrums at the word. At the voice. At the being uttering the word. Dread was written on his face and Guilliman let it show, too numb to hide it as he looked up from the floor. The voice that spoke it belonged to the same face that he'd seen millennia ago. The same green eyes, flecked with brown spots on the borders. The same messy, short hair, the same colour as pine bark. The same stubble, always 3 days old. The scar that covered the left eye. From bayonet practice, he knew. The broken nose. The permanent half grin, half grimace that dominated the lips and mouth. The single, exact foot taller. The same power armour. The same brother. The same Primarch of the second.

Agony tore at Guilliman yet again, his hearts burning within his chest as he looked up and simply, dryly said: "Ahrucius "

"You have Father's sword."

"Yes..."

"It's been... A while. Should I be worried by your aim?"

"That would depend upon your objectives"

"You don't think I should be here?"

"You're dead." Was all Guilliman could stagger out of his mouth carefully.

His brother cocked his head. "I suppose you would think that, all things considered." came his brother's reply as he shouldered his huge poleaxe. The weapon was gargantuan, a hammer at the front, a huge, bladed spike sat atop it before the other side curved down into a bearded axe that doubled as a hook. "We need to talk. Why do you have Father's sword? I assume he knows I've returned?"

"The emperor... The emperor is in stasis. Near dead." The words stunned both brothers, stinging Guilliman even now.

"Dead? No. Impossible. Horus wouldn't allow it. You know full well he wouldn't"

"There was a rebellion... Horus on one side. Father on the other. Horus is dead."

"Roboute. I'm not stupid."

"You think I'd joke and lie about that?!" Guilliman suddenly found himself snarling, anger rising as he composed himself slowly. "Horus, Mortarion Fulgrim, Magnus, Alpharius, Angron, Curze, Lorgar and Perturabo rebelled. They assaulted us, and there was a war. And you survived Russ, yet did nothing?" he found himself yelling, fist clenching as he looked at his brother.

"What could I do?! I had the barest of resources, father himself ordered my death! You expected a man who had been stabbed in the back to tug out the knife and defend his attacker?! I had nothing! I could barely walk! And you believe I should've waltzed back to Terra, kissed father's feet and defended him?!"

"Your failings fall at your feet! The blame lies with you! You seem to have done extremely well for yourself, for a man who had nothing! Why did you bother returning, if all you do is stalk down the path you and Perturabo favoured, wallowing in pity?!"

Ahrucius sighed and turned away, growling. "Naivety. I thought now that I had fully rebuilt my legion, step by step, I could return. Show father my resilience. Apologise. Assist the imperium."

"You're too late. We stand upon a precipice, and sooner or later, we'll fall. I hold what I can, but I'm on my own. All the others are missing, traitors or dead."

"All? Even Sanguinius?"

"Died, by Horus' own hands."

There was an almighty crash, and Guilliman looked up. His brother knelt in the grass, shaking his head. "The grand dream... Fallen. The best of us... Annihilated. Our father, practically dead... What of the people?" Ahrucius groaned, looking towards the city. "What about the people? That huge structure. Why is it here?"

"The people... Cattle, in a word... It hurts to admit it, but Horus condemned us to a slow death. The imperium falls apart, our father is worshipped... People are enslaved, agony runs throughout the imperium, the Ecclesiarchy, Inquisition and bureaucrats tear us apart from within."

"Father... Is a god?" was the faint reply, whispering across the grasses.

"Worshipped."

"Is that it? Is our great work completely destroyed? Tell me, Brother. Is everything we fought for consigned to ash?"

Guilliman laid a hand upon his brother's shoulder, sighing. "No. But it... It's a new form. With two of us, we can halt this decline... You and I, brother. We never saw eye to eye, yet now... Now our work begins anew. The imperium is in it's death throes, or some would believe. Some fools. Together, brother, these death throes are simply just the stirrings of a giant. Ahrucius... Together, we rebuild the imperium. Together, we will do as Horus did. The galaxy will burn, but this time it will burn with righteous anger. It will burn with retribution. I promise you this, brother. Stand with me, and our work shall be remade."

He'd seen that grin before. Guilliman smiled. It meant Ahrucius had made up his mind. It meant he had a plan. He awaited the next words with bated breath. He needn't have bothered. "We have things to discuss, brother."


End file.
